


Little Things

by grayimperia



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 21:42:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12197961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayimperia/pseuds/grayimperia
Summary: [Implied late V3 game spoilers]Momota, Saihara, Ouma, and the little moments that make up their lives during and after the game.





	Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily implied late game spoilers. Slightly implied VR au.

_one_

Ouma squirms in place, and Momota squints one eye, aiming the tweezers held aloft in his hand as if he were a surgeon in the midst of operating. As it stands, failing to adequately remove Ouma’s splinter from the tip of his finger would likely result in about half as much grievance as failing at heart surgery. Ouma whines, “You’re gonna hurt me.”

“If you don’t fucking sit still, I will,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “And can’t you fucking do this yourself?”

Ouma pouts, crossing his one free arm over his chest. Despite his irritated words, Momota’s firm but supportive grip on Ouma’s wrist doesn’t falter. “I’m right handed,” Ouma says. “It’d be too hard—and Saihara-chan said you had to be nice to me.”

Momota snorts. “And Shuuichi also said you had to try and be less of a fucking brat.”

“No lying, Momota-chan!” Ouma says, jabbing his other finger in Momota’s face. “Saihara-chan said—ow!”

In the midst of his talking, Momota tries for the splinter, proclaiming, “Got it!”

Ouma’s eyes dart down to his finger, and there is a brief period of absolute silence before the tiniest drop of blood wells up. He bursts into tears, whining, “Momota-chan’s a liar! You said you wouldn’t hurt me!”

“St-Stop crying!” Momota shouts, prompting Ouma to raise his sniffling a few decibels. “This,” he gestures vaguely at Ouma’s hand. “This is fucking nothing!”

“I’m bleeding,” he whines. “And now I’m going to die from blood loss, and it will be all—”

“Calm down,” Momota huffs, blindly groping for the box of bandaids on their crowded coffee table with his free hand. “No one’s dying of anything.”

Ouma’s tears vanish, and his mouth twists into a frown. He sits slightly for a moment, watching Momota grapple with peeling the backing off a bandaid one handed. Then, “guess we already did that part.”

Momota just shakes his head. “Don’t talk about that shit.” He presses the bandaid to Ouma’s finger with a bit more force than necessary, though the other boy doesn’t so much as blink. Momota sighs and reaches forward to ruffle Ouma’s hair for the sake of earning some reaction. “C’mon, quit moping—look, you’re not bleeding to death or whatever anymore. So cheer up already.”

Ouma frowns, batting Momota’s hand away. “I’m not moping—I just,” he hums. “I just wish Saihara-chan was here is all. If Saihara-chan was here, and I got hurt,” Ouma grins brightly. “He’d take care of me and kiss it better.”

“I fucking took care of you fine,” Momota says. “What more do you want from…”

He trails off, noticing the distinctly mischievous look in Ouma’s eyes. “No,” Momota says, backing away off their worn couch—thoroughly stained with soda and coffee alike. “No, fuck you.”

Ouma hops to his feet after him. “But Momota-chan—”

Momota pelts him in the face with a particularly ratty pillow and manages to knock a half full cup of coffee off the table in his escape. Ouma darts after him, giggling as Momota curses, and Saihara returns later to an apartment far messier than he left it and his roommates balancing atop various pieces of furniture.

Ouma calls out, “Saihara-chan! The floor is made of lava!”

Saihara sighs, and sighs louder when Ouma ducks out of the way of the wadded up blanket Momota throws, and it unravels in the air, almost perfectly draping itself over Saihara’s head. 

And the afternoon floats on in peace, even when Saihara hovers over them disapprovingly, forcing them to clean up their mess. 

-

_kiss_

Ouma lies perfectly still other than his ragged breathing causing his chest to rise and fall in shaky intervals. 

Momota’s just finished helping him get into place, and hesitates, hovering over him for a second. Ouma knows he wants to say that everything will be okay, but he also knows that Momota doesn’t have it in him to lie right now. 

Ouma reaches out towards Momota’s grim face, and brushes his thumb across the corner of his mouth, wiping at the dried blood that had collected there. “Got something on your face, Momota-chan,” he wheezes. 

Ouma’s hand lingers, and Momota lets out a deep breath before placing his hand as gently as he can over Ouma’s smaller one. He can’t tell him everything’s going to be okay. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he mutters instead. 

It’s time they don’t have, but Momota slowly moves Ouma’s hand back down to his side as if he were made of glass. He lets out another breath, and Ouma’s eyes flicker up almost disinterestedly—as if it were happening to someone else—when Momota places a light kiss on his sweat stained forehead. 

The second kiss on his lips is just as chaste and fleeting and tastes like blood and sweat and so many other sick things. Part of Ouma still wishes it would last forever because fate comes rushing up too fast as soon as Momota pulls away.

-

_two_

The movie really isn’t that scary. Not really. For the most part, it’s dark and filled with fake outs and false starts. The few genuine times the monster appears, Saihara finds himself more amused at the poor special effects than frightened.

He still feels Momota slowly inch closer as the film stretches on and finds his arm held captive in an iron grip after a particularly dramatic spike in the music. On Saihara’s other side, Ouma casually leans forward resting his head in his hands, idly swinging his legs. “This movie’s sooooo boring,” he drawls. 

“Y-Yeah,” Momota says. “I’m so fucking bored right now.”

Ouma hums as he shifts to the side, sprawling out to stretch across both Saihara and Momota. “Hey, Saihara-chan,” he says, shifting to get comfortable. “Can you tell Momota-chan he’s a really bad liar?”

“Sh-Shut the fuck—what was that!?” Momota yelps, pulling Saihara closer to him. Saihara absently reaches up to pat the back of Momota’s head as the other boy buries his face into his shoulder, moaning, “who fucking picked this?”

“Well,” Saihara says. 

“I’ll give you three guesses,” Ouma says. “And it’s not Saihara-chan.”

Momota shakes his head without lifting it from Saihara’s shoulder. “I fucking hate you.”

“Saihara-chan,” Ouma says nonchalantly. “Momota-chan’s bullying me.”

Momota mutters, “I’m the one who’s being fucking attacked right now…”

Saihara says, “How about we watch something else?”

“Y-Yeah!” says Momota. “Good idea, Shuuichi.”

“Mhmm,” says Ouma, lifting himself on to his elbows. “I guess Momota-chan’s too much of a baby scaredy cat for—”

Momota reaches down to shove Ouma’s head back into his lap. “Actually never mind, we’re fucking watching this.”

“Momota-kun…” Saihara says gently. “You really don’t have to try and prove anything to us. It’s really okay if you’re scared.”

“Yeah!” cheers Ouma. “I don’t think you’ve ever proved anything to me before!”

“‘m gonna punch you in your sleep,” Momota mumbles. 

It’s not too much a surprise later that night that Momota says he completely understands if his assistant is still scared and needs someone to sleep in his room with him. It’s even less of a surprise to Saihara when he hears Ouma attempting to silently tiptoe into the room. 

Saihara softly whispers, “Ouma-kun, please,” as the other boy opts to suddenly pounce on Momota’s sleeping form. 

When the shouting finally subsides, Saihara’s a bit too hot with Momota pressed against one side, snoring into his ear, and Ouma are the other, snuffling into his chest. But—he shifts slightly and they move with him—he finds himself more happy than anything else.

-

_kiss_

Ouma isn’t really that upset about the severe trauma he caused to his finger. Not really. It hurts, but that doesn’t really matter either. What matters is Saihara looking at him with deep concern and even deeper skeptism.

“Ouma-kun,” he chides. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

“Do what?” Ouma asks, drumming his fingers on the table. “I’m just clumsy, Saihara-chan—or,” he grins, “do you think that was a lie?”

Saihara frowns, knowing far too well that he’s being baited. “I think you just stabbed yourself with a knife.”

“So I did!” Ouma says. “But it was a total accident.” He turns away, batting his eyes, “it’s not like I did it for my beloved Saihara-chan just because I like him…”

“Ouma-kun,” Saihara sighs. “You know that when you say literally every possibility, one of them can’t be a lie, right?”

“Yep, yep!” he says, cheer returning. “Unless the truth turns into a lie somewhere along the way.”

Saihara furrows his brow. “And that means…?”

“Saihara-chan!” Ouma huffs. “You’re a detective! You can’t let a liar like me steal the truth right out from under you!”

Saihara pauses for a moment, annoyance subsiding in favor of contemplation. “‘Steal the truth…’”

“Mhmm!” Ouma says. “Because along with being a liar, I’m also a master thief!”

“That’s a lie,” Saihara says. 

Ouma tilts his head. “Huh? How do you know?”

“Because even if you always do lie, I think I’ve managed to learn a few things about you, Ouma-kun,” Saihara says. “And one of those things is that if you did something really impressive, you’d probably brag about it.”

He puffs out his cheeks. “How rude, Saihara-chan! I’ve stolen lots of impressive things!”

“Like?” 

Ouma pauses for a moment, seeming to contemplate something, then he turns to Saihara, beckoning him closer with one finger. “Okay—I’ll tell the truth, but only to you so it’s a secret just between us, okay, Saihara-chan? So promise me you won’t tell anyone!”

Saihara lets out a sigh, preparing himself for whatever ridiculous thing Ouma’s about to say. He leans forward saying, “I promise, I—”

Ouma presses his lips feather light against Saihara’s cheek for perhaps half a second before darting back away. He seems unsure of himself for roughly the same amount of time the kiss lasted before he starts giggling. Saihara presses his hand to his face, almost too surprised to even blush. He says, “Ouma-kun…”

“Yup!” Ouma answers. “The thing I stole was truly precious!”

He jumps up, already skipping away, and Saihara distantly realizes Ouma isn’t taking the chance of listening to his reaction. Part of him had always assumed that the boy willing to drive a knife through his own finger wasn’t afraid of anything. But now it seems somewhere along the way, that truth changed, too. 

-

_three_

Admittedly, it isn’t Saihara’s proudest moment, standing on the one dining room chair he trusts not collapse under his weight, eyes locked on the tiny skittering insect with entirely too many legs. Ouma’s crouched on another chair, shouting, “Don’t kill it, Momota-chan! You’ll get bug guts all over my stuff!”

None of them like insects, but between the three of them, Momota ended up being the closest to a newspaper to adequately roll up. “Stop yelling,” he says. “I’m not gonna kill it—I’m just gonna,” he waves the newspaper vaguely. “Lightly smash it to death or something.”

Saihara furrows his brow. “Momota-kun…”

“No smashing!” Ouma insists. “And no squishing either!”

“Okay,” Momota says. “Either I fucking kill it or one of you gets a cup or something, and we do that stupid thing where we try and take it outside.” He walks over to Ouma’s chair, lightly tapping him on the head with the newspaper. “I don’t even know where the bug fucking is anymore.”

“Under the couch,” Saihara says far too quickly. “I-I mean,” he gingerly steps down from his chair. “I-I’ll get a cup or something.”

He shuffles away and overhears Momota say, “Still can’t believe you weren’t the kinda kid to burn ants with a magnifying glass or something.”

“Of course not,” Ouma huffs. “What do you take me for, Momota-chan?”

“A pest,” Momota says. “Which actually means, I guess you and the ants have something to see eye to eye over.” Saihara can practically hear the grin in his voice when he says, “You’re also close enough to the ground, so—”

“I don’t care about that, just,” Ouma hisses. “Just no squishing. I don’t…”

Saihara hurries to grab a glass, hearing Momota say, “Fuck, I didn’t mean—”

He rushes back in, holding the glass close to his chest. “Found one!” he announces. “So, um,” he glances around the room. “Um, where did the bug go?”

There’s enough panic to send Saihara back to his place on top of his chair, and Ouma scrambles onto Momota’s shoulders the second the other turns his back, claiming the bug will eat him first this way.

When it’s finally found, the offending bug is released outside with little fanfare, though Saihara notices that Momota doesn’t seem to protest Ouma continuing his impromptu piggyback ride, even as they climb the spiraling stairs back up their apartment. 

Ouma chatters the whole way, and Momota threats to drop him, though he never does. Saihara smiles even when Ouma reaches down from his perch to ruffle his hair, saying, “Saihara-chan looks like an ant from up here!”

-

_kiss_

Saihara’s staring up at stars, half wondering if maybe they’ll collapse down on him. Maybe the world will fall out from under or rain down from above. His eyes stay locked on the sky in what is admittedly one of his most melancholy moments in a long time. 

Momota’s only a few feet away from him, opting to lie flat on his back with an arm folded under his head, unlike Saihara who merely sits crossed-legged, craning his neck straight up to stare into the shining abyss looking back down on him. Momota always talks about space as if it existed for the benefit of man—a place for them to go, to conquer. Saihara stares up at it and just thinks about how imagining millions of far off galaxies makes him feel smaller than an ant.

If the world is really that big, then maybe him and his life and the sick game he’s trapped in really don’t mean anything at all. Maybe his problems are all in his head, and—

Momota starts speaking, and the frantic racing in Saihara’s head stops. “So, Shuuichi,” he says. “Who you have waiting for you—mom, dad, friends, family, whatever?”

It’s enough to startle Saihara back down to earth. “Um,” he picks at the grass, pulling it up in anxious fistfuls. “My uncle, I guess—my parents are… not around.”

“Mine either,” Momota says, and the casualness of it catches Saihara’s attention. “How long you’ve been living without ‘em?”

“Well,” he says. “For a long time—I mean they visit occasionally, but,” he lets out a self deprecating laugh. “Sometimes I wonder if they even remember they have a child… it’s like they never really stopped being on their honeymoon…” Momota nods, but the silence filled only with his own talking suddenly makes him feel very awkward, and he hurriedly stutters, “A-And what about you? Are your, um—”

“Never knew ‘em,” Momota answers. “Just me and my grandparents.”

“O-Oh,” Saihara stammers, staring at the ground. “I’m sorry to—”

He hears Momota shift, pulling himself up into a sitting position. “Don’t worry about it, man,” he says. “Sooo, anyone else? Friends, pets,” he smiles teasingly. “Girlfriend?”

“A-Ah, um, no,” Saihara says, face burning. “To, um, any of those.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You?”

Momota laughs. “Two out of three. But,” he grins. “Guy like me’ll find the last one any day now.”

“Really?” Saihara asks, quirking an eyebrow. “While we’re still here?”

“Sure,” he says with a shrug. “And we can hang out and stare at the stars and shit.”

“Like… what we’re doing now?” Saihara asks.

Momota smiles, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess—don’t plan on kissing you though.”

“Ah, u-uh, right,” he stutters. 

They talk about menial things even as Saihara’s mind keeps running Momota’s words on repeat. Momota walks him all the way back to his bedroom door, and Saihara’s face is burning too brightly and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to even manage half the courage he needs, so it’s not too much of a surprise that when he stands on his toes, he misses Momota’s cheek and ends up hitting the tip of his nose.

He backs away immediately, already stuttering an apology when Momota laughs, asking, “That how you say goodnight?”

“I, um,” Saihara has no idea what to say. “Yes?”

Momota laughs again and lowers his head to return the gesture, and all possible thoughts leave Saihara’s head as he wanders off casually saying over his shoulder, “Night, Shuuichi!”

He stands dumbly outside his door for probably too long, wondering if the universe will swallow this, too, in time.

-

_final_

Momota does it first. Saihara’s been Shuuichi forever, so it shouldn’t catch them nearly as off guard as it does when he casually comes to breakfast one day, passing by Ouma, ruffling his hair and mumbling, “Morning, Kokichi.”

Ouma chokes on his cereal. 

Saihara watches with vague concern over the rim of his mug as Ouma stares at Momota with entirely too much suspicion all through breakfast. Saihara doesn’t think it’s meant as a challenge, but Ouma scowls with unquestioning honesty when Momota says, “Hey, Kichi, pass the salt.”

It’s enough that Ouma comes to flop beside him on the couch that day. “I think he’s just trying to be friendly,” Saihara says after listening to Ouma rattle off a list of possible theories he managed to concoct in the span of a few hours. “And to be honest, I think it’s kind of nice.”

Ouma puffs out his cheeks. “Saihara-chan,” he drawls. “Why are you taking his side?”

“I’m not taking a side,” Saihara answers evenly. “I just meant what I said—I think it’s nice.”

Ouma leans forward, propping his head up with his hands. “You’re so selfish, Saihara-chan,” he says. “You don’t care because it’s not happening to you. Like, would you like it if I started calling you Shuuichi-chan?”

“I…” Saihara thinks, and then suddenly has to fight down the blush threatening to rush over his face. “I wouldn’t mind it.”

“Oh.”

Ouma goes completely blank. Saihara uses the moment to say, “I-I think what’s happening is just, well,” he tugs at his bangs, still not quite out of the habit of reaching for his hat. “I think that maybe Momota-kun’s just decided that he doesn’t want to pretend that he hates you anymore.” Ouma’s still staring blandly at him, and Saihara quickly elaborates. “I-I mean, I think after all this time, it’s impossible that you two could actually hate each other, and—”

“Shuuichi,” Ouma says, casually moving forward to rest his head on Saihara’s lap. 

“Y-Yes?”

“You don’t hate me anymore either, right?” he asks, far too emotionlessly for Saihara’s comfort. 

For all of his composure, Saihara can practically feel Ouma’s old fears resurge and bubble around them. He says, “I never hated you.”

Ouma stays quiet and far too still for a moment longer. Then, “You should call me Kokichi, too.” And he spins back around to look up at Saihara, mischievous grin back in place. “If you weren’t lying just now that is.”

Saihara sighs. “After all this time, I think I’ve learned that trying to lie to you is a lost cause, Kokichi-kun.”

They’re both blushing slightly at his words, though neither of their reactions are anything compared to Momota’s squawk of protest when Ouma chirps, “Welcome home, Kaito-chan!” later that evening.

And that’s perhaps even less amusing that his silence, then stammering, then obvious excuse to leave after Saihara says, “I think he’s just trying to get along with you, Kaito-kun.”

Ouma bursts into giggling, and chases after him, chanting, “Kai-chan, Kai-chan!” as Momota yells at him to knock it off.

Saihara muffles his own laughter behind his hands, holding his joy close in their little corner of the universe.

**Author's Note:**

> Of course my release day fic still manages to have spoilers, haha. But happy V3 English release day!


End file.
